The Visitors

My wife has gone back to work. She is a teacher and her summer is over. She is not pleased. I don’t mind it because the house is quiet again. There are no banging noises. I hear only the hum of my computer. Or occasionally a child squeals at the swimming pool across the street.

My mother came for a visit this weekend. My brother came with her. My daughter and her boyfriend drove from Arkansas. My other daughter brought my grandson. It was good to see them. It was like a family reunion.

My mother talks about my father a lot. She misses him. We all do. At dinner her nose started to bleed for no obvious reason. She said it happened before and didn’t mean anything. I hope not. She’s eighty-three.

My mother likes to play slot machines in casinos. I find that odd. In every other aspect of her life she is frugal. She brought her own breakfast biscuits to my house to save money. They were Jimmy Dean.

On Saturday they all went to a casino. Everybody lost, but they said they had a good time. I don’t like casinos because I never win, so I stayed home.

My brother and I drank a lot of beer. That was the plan in advance. I wrote him last week and said “many beers will die.” He agreed, and they did. I was tired all day on Sunday.

My brother brought a book with him called The Stranger. He left it for me to read. I’ve been reading it. Can you tell?


About Truman

Sixty-five. Bald. Fat. Grouchy. 'bout covers it.
Gallery | This entry was posted in Memoir, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to The Visitors

  1. Your blog reads like the commentary to a black and white 40s film. Very interesting.

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